The Name Game is On
by HecateA
Summary: In which Sherlock is the worst person to name an unborn child with. This story does not take in consideration the events of S3 E3. For Humus and Peeta. Oneshot.


**Despite my fear of the way the Sherlock fandom has a knack at ripping plots apart in search of flaws, my love for Humus and Peeta is stronger and has made me write this oneshot for her birthday. With her permission, I share it with you. You should check out her profile if you're into Harry Potter or Clash of the Titans. Also since she hasn't seen Episode 3 yet (Canada eh?), this story happens as if it never existed and the series stopped at episode 2. Hope you enjoy the story!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters portrayed below.**

**Dedication: To Humus and Peeta.**

* * *

**The Name Game is On**

* * *

Eating, sleeping, cuddling and getting foot massages.

That was the strict list of things on Mary Morstan's list of acceptable activities.

Notice how 'arguing about baby names' was not on that list?

There was a reason for it. A good one, at that.

Not that the world's greatest detective could be bothered to realise it, of course.

Of course, Mary realised why it was important for Sherlock Holmes to approve of Fetus' name- so that once he or she popped up into the world, there would be no endless nagging about a distant Slavic assassin with the same initials or whatnot.

Still.

That did not mean in any shape or way that she had to like it. Mary was carrying England's future in her stomach and growing fatter by the minute. That being said, she owed nothing to anybody and especially not her good mood and pleasant temperament. Not to John who knocked her up to begin with, not to her boss who was having regular hissy fits about her leave, and definitely not to Sherlock Holmes.

"What about Rosie?" John said from the kitchen table where a chess game was spread.

"I love Rosie!" Mary agreed.

"Rosie is a derivative of Rose which is the second most popular middle name in the United Kingdom," Sherlock said, sitting on the opposite side of the chess game.

"And?" Mary asked. "That just means that it's a nice name."

"There are current studies suggesting that there is a tight coalition between the rarity of a name and the inclination of aforementioned name-bearer to crime," Sherlock said. "Also check mate, John."

* * *

"Okay, here's an idea," John said. Rain pattered against the window but the flat was warm and cozy thanks to John's paranoia in regards of keeping Mary comfortable. Like right now? Free foot massage. Without. Even. Asking. The epitome of a victory, if you asked her. "We anagram your name, and give it to the baby."

"Oh that's clever," Mary said. "If you can find an anagram, that is."

"There's Myra," John said.

"Myra Hindley and Ian Brady were the two criminals responsible for the Moors Murders in the 1960's, cases in which three children under the age of twelve and two teenagers were tortured and murdered," Sherlock rambled off.

Silence.

Because of her foot massage, Mary couldn't be too rude about her answer as it was physically impossible.

"We could anagram something else," she simply suggested.

* * *

"I like the minimalistic idea," Mary said. "Short names. Short and sweet, you know?"

"With names like Mary and John you can hardly allow yourself much eloquence," Sherlock said, which Mary ignored. The idea had been to discuss names over dinner, so that hopefully there were times during which Sherlock's mouth would be full and he would ergo have to keep his comments to himself.

"I agree," John said through a mouthful of chicken. "I mean- no, not with Sherlock, I agree with you." He swallowed. "About names. Short and sweet."

"Like Anna," Mary said. "Anna Watson is nice, isn't it?"

John opened his mouth to agree but Sherlock interjected.

"Not if her mother's name is Mary," he said.

"And why is that?" Mary asked, vowing to spit in Sherlock's food next time he was over for dinner. He blinked as if it were obvious.

"Because of the serial killer, Mary Ann Cotton. She murdered three husbands, two lovers and a dozen or so children, mostly by arsenic poisoning."

Mary put her fork down and pushed her plate away.

"Arsenic poisoning," John said looking at his chicken. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"I'm simply offering a fully-rounded perspective on things," he said.

* * *

"I like Arthur," Mary said.

Sherlock and John both gave her a look.

"You're having a girl," John said. "Right? It's a girl, right? I'm not…"

"No you're not losing it, I know it's a girl," Mary said. "But the scans are never fool proof. Sometimes it's supposed to be a girl, but it's a boy- you should know, you're a doctor. It's not fair if we don't get ready for a possibly baby boy, is it?"

At least this had made sense in Mary's mind.

"Alright," John said. "Arthur Watson?"

"No, Chris!" Mary said. "Chris Watson is sweeter. Or Theo… No, Chris, Chris is good."

"What would Chris be short for?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, nothing."

"Nothing?"

"It doesn't have to be short for anything, it's a good name," Mary said.

"My mother always said that nicknames ought to stay nicknames," Sherlock said.

"Your mother named her children Mycroft and Sherlock," Mary said. "I'll try not to take my advice from her."

They had Sherlock-free baby name discussions for a week after that one.

* * *

"Jessica," Mary said out of nowhere. She'd gotten into a habit. She'd be in the Tube, in the office, having a meal or trying to get to sleep late at night and from the corner of her eye she'd see an author's name on the spine of a book, an ad on the roads or hear someone calling out to a friend, and she'd promptly propose a name.

"That would be the laziest name you could ever contemplate burdening your child with."

"And why would that be?" Mary asked feeling a bit more patient than usual on account that Sherlock was over at their flat for the soul reason that he'd run out to the shop for her. Mary could never quite be mad at someone bringing her food.

"John's initials are JHW. Two thirds of your daughter's initials would then be the father's."

"I think Jessica's a lovely name though," Mary said breaking open the pot of ice cream that was excusing Sherlock's presence. She pulled a spoon out of the cutlery drawer. "The initials are only a coincidence."

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock said. Mary put her spoon down. Triple chocolate chip or not, she had to get him out of here.

"Sherlock I think you forgot the milk."

"Milk wasn't on your list Mary."

"Yes it was, I'd know, I wrote the list."

"I highly doubt that I would have forgotten such a basic nutritional staple if it'd been on your list, much less since I had said list with me."

"Well now it's on my list and you have to leave and get some right now," Mary said tightly.

Sherlock blinked.

"There are recent studies suggesting that pregnant women shouldn't consume dairy products to avoid putting the child at risk," he said.

"Yes and?" Mary said impatiently.

"And you already have the ice cream," Sherlock said.

Mary's muscles relaxed and her energy deflated.

"You've been reading articles about whether or not I should eat dairy?" Mary asked.

"Well not you specifically, it's estimated that in England right now over-"

She wrapped her arms around his waist and that shut him up. Confusion always managed to shut him down.

"That's soya milk, Sherlock. Just the stuff with soya beans is bad for pregnant mothers. But never mind, you can tell me more about the name Jessica, then."

"Invented by William Shakespeare in the event of his play The Merchant of Venice, the name Jessica had been born by several clients of mine, most of them hysterical, after it rose to popularity in-"

* * *

"Alexa," Mary said. It was getting late in the evening but also late in the pregnancy and she was tired of answering questions about the baby's name with 'we don't know yet'. She was rattling off anything to anyone at this point. "Or Alexanne. Even Alexandra, that's nice too."

"I like it," John said.

"Of course you do, you're oblivious to the world," Sherlock said.

"Oh here we go, what ancient Russian dictator am I risking to name my firstborn after this time?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Not a dictator John, a killer. Alexander Wayne Watson Jr, classified as a serial killer and convicted of four murders and of juvenile rape in 1994."

"Audrey then," Mary said. And Ava, Alice, Amanda, Aria, Anita, Angela, Amelia and about seven other good, strong names…

"Same initials. Keep in mind that his method of murder was strangulation and stabbing," Sherlock said.

"Anika can go off my list, then," John muttered.

"Amy off of mine," Mary said.

"Well, let's just get everything out in the open at once," John said putting the newspaper down for good and leaning back in his chair. "What do you think of Maxine, Sherlock?"

"A name whose Latin roots mean 'greatest', which would be quite the challenge for any future children of yours to face."

"Emily, then?" John said.

"Emily Dickinson, the writer and poetess, is speculated to have been either depressed, agoraphobic or bipolar- possibly all three, the combination has been clinically demonstrated."

"Cassandra?" Mary challenged.

"Also in the mentally unstable category, Cassandra was an Ancient Greek Trojan princess reputed to have tempted the god Apollo and been cursed with the power of foresight though her predictions, including the fall of her own kingdom at the hands of the Greeks, were never believed," he rambled again.

"We should just name her Sherlock," Mary decided.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson sat next to Mary and reviewed the list. She's expelled John and Sherlock from the Baker Street flat after they'd gotten a client, but John had told Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on Mary while they were away. She was more and happy to, that woman. Bubbly and giddy and excited for this new little life- more glad happy to look over Mary's private, Sherlock-and-John-free list with her.

- Evie

- Lola

- Lily

- Charlotte

- Leah

- Emma

- Sadie

- Abigail

- Sarah

- Mia

- Tara

- Beth

"Do you think that there's anything on here that I can suggest without Sherlock having something to say?" She asked.

"Dear, I'm afraid that there isn't a single word you can utter without Sherlock having some kind of opinion on it." Mrs. Hudson.

"This is bloody impossible," Mary said running her hands through her hair.

"No, no, no, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "It'll be alright. You'll find something."

"I have found something," Mary said. "I've found a lot of somethings. But nothing good."

"These are all nice," Mrs Hudson said.

"Not to my impossible boys, it's not," Mary said.

Mrs Hudson gave her a second to damn everything her mind could conjure before rubbing her back. "You know the reason that Sherlock cares so much?"

Mary shook her head but then caught herself. "John?

"You and John. Because it's you and John's baby," Mrs. Hudson said. "That's big news to him. Try to remember his face when you told him you were pregnant."

"Actually, he told us," Mary mumbled. "At the wedding."

"Even more!" Mrs. Hudson said. "Sherlock lives a rather… unusual life. A dangerous one. When he wakes up, he doesn't have the slightest idea at what time he'll be home or where he'll be going or any of it. He worries a lot about John and you, you know. He worries about what will happen if he can't say goodbye on a day where he should have, what if he ever leaves and really can't come back, what if someone tries to get to him through you and John- because there really is no other way to do it … And now he worries about this baby too. This beautiful little baby who may have John's eyes, or who may have yours… He's not sure how much or for how long he'll be worrying though, so for now he frets about the name when you ask him."

Mary's eyes were watering.

"Stupid hormones," she muttered pawing at them to wipe the tears away.

"It's not your hormones, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "It's just Sherlock being human."

* * *

"Sherlock?" Mary asked. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"If it's to run out for more ice cream, I took the liberty of buying double the quantities last time you had me…"

"No, no, it's not food related," Mary said. "And I know you did."

Mostly because she'd eaten the double supply since.

"It's about something else," she said.

Sherlock, at loss when it came to social affairs, simply starred. She understood why John had made her ask, as opposed to going through another best-man scenario.

"It's about the baby," Mary asked. Arched eyebrow, alert stare...

"John and I can't think of anybody else in the world who'd be a better godfather than you would," Mary said.

Sherlock didn't react.

"You- you know what that is, don't you?" Mary asked. "It's… it's like a third parent…"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You would trust me with that- with that immense task?" Sherlock asked. "Of caring for your child if you and John couldn't?"

"Gladly," Mary said. "I gladly would."

Sherlock's shoulders were stiff and his arms looked dangling and useless and uncomfortable.

"Do you want to hug me, Sherlock?" Mary asked.

Sherlock nodded. Mary held him as tightly as she could, despite her baby bump.

The baby bump that would become Abby Celeste Watson.


End file.
